


the day that was.

by winonasawyer



Category: Ratched (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt, F/F, Introspection, Mentions of Cancer, Sad and Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 19:55:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29971494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winonasawyer/pseuds/winonasawyer
Summary: every saturday, gwendolyn has to take her shots, and mildred—millie— makes her breakfast, because she’s sorry.
Relationships: Gwendolyn Briggs/Mildred Ratched
Comments: 11
Kudos: 43





	the day that was.

**Author's Note:**

> hey, guys. i’m sorry i haven’t been writing much lately, i was in a depressive episode due to some very upsetting news in my family. cancer is very common on my mother’s side, so when i got news of my grandmother’s breast cancer, i was (obviously) very upset. she’s fine for now, but it’s so scary to know how a illness can do so much damage to a person. i didn’t mean to trauma dump, but i thought y’all deserve an explanation. 
> 
> with that being said, please be careful when reading this story. while it has nothing graphic, i get that cancer can me a heavy topic for a lot of people. stay safe, babes <3

-

the sun shines the brightest on saturday morning, and gwendolyn groans from it. 

she mumbles to herself as sunlight glares through the window; harsh and unforgiving. she keeps forgetting to close the curtains at night, something she knows mildred kind of hates her for. it’s fine, she thinks as she walks over to the window as pulls the curtains shut, today’s a saturday. she gets a free pass. 

with a sigh, gwendolyn creeps back into bed, peering at her bedmate with drooping eyes. mildred usually is up before gwen; years of strict schedules and turbulent nightmares molding her to have an early start to her day, but she’s tired and hasn’t been sleeping well lately. gwendolyn watches her for a moment; eyes trailing across her naked skin before turning away and looking up at the ceiling. 

every saturday, gwendolyn has to get her shots, and mildred—millie— makes her breakfast, because she’s sorry. she lets her watch ‘i love lucy’ on full blast even though she thinks lucy is a complete dumbass, because she’s sorry. she dresses herself in gwendolyn’s old shirt and trousers, and she heads outside. she spends the day out there; pruning the plants outside their window and cutting down on the weeds. she works without gloves, tearing away at the overgrown flora- and comes back with bloody scratches and mud under her nails. she tells gwendolyn it’s not about her. weeding is something that has to be done, she’ll say. (gwendolyn thinks it’s fucking bullshit, but she never tells mildred that.)

when she comes back, soaked with sweat and slightly sunburnt, she looks beautiful and gwendolyn knows she won’t be able to touch her. 

“i feel dirty,” mildred confesses later, when asked the reason for her discomfort. “and besides, you don’t need to worry about me. i’m fine, you know i am.” 

gwendolyn had been angry, then. it felt as if mildred was ashamed of her; thinking of their relationship as something to be pushed down and tucked away like fucking tumor in her breast. she had been angry, but now she couldn’t even find it in her to care. maybe it was weakness- but she was learning quickly that life was too damn short to be so angry.

she will confess to hating the shots, though. they come in fancy packages from the hospital, and it feels like pity. mildred will carefully take them out; prepping the needles and measuring out the proper dosages for them all. gwendolyn watches her sometimes, slightly awed at how easy she moves- fingers almost robotic as they dash and clean and pour the medicine into iv bags. it’s not typical for them to use the bags at home, but gwendolyn is getting weaker and she refuses to wither away at the hospital. the doctors look all sad when she says that, and so the medicine is sent to her instead. when mildred approaches her with the needles and medications and iv bags- gwendolyn stares up at the tv, and wonders. 

if she strains, she can remember how it felt before the shots. the memories are rose colored; painted pink with the two of them driving across mexico, sipping mimosas and kissing each other silly. mildred had drove most of the way, and when they reached their new house- gwendolyn had pushed her down and ate at her until her jaw ached and the house reeked of sex. it was easy to forget about the tumor, then. back then, in those faraway bubblegum months, the sickness had been small- barely the size of an orange. sure, she still fell ill almost daily and her hair was running thin- but she healthy enough and fuck, she was still here. she wasn’t shriveled and pale in a goddamn hospital bed, she was alive and kicking and would be damned if her life was sucked away. 

for a while, it had been enough. mildred had got her a good doctor and watched her constantly. she would brush her knotted hair or feed her soup when she was too weak to stand, and she stayed with her when life bit them both. in the ass. she kissed gwendolyn and hugged her and made it damn clear that she wasn’t leaving, not now and not ever. she stayed through the morning vomit and the fainting spells, and she loved her the whole time. gwendolyn wasn’t healthy, but she was alive and that’s all that really mattered when it came down to it. until it wasn’t. 

she can still remember the times when she forgot about the shots. it feels foolish- but even now she finds herself embarrassed as the memories torment her form. ‘the twilight zone’ was playing, rodman edward sterling’s voice pouring over her like honey. mildred had called the show immature- but gwendolyn never cared much for mildred’s opinion on modern television. to her, every show or piece of media was written by idiots; thus the scowl on her face every time she walked in on gwendolyn watching them eagerly. she never shut them off, though, something gwendolyn was glad for. it had been towards the early stages, the doctors just started with the at home dosage, and somehow- she had forgotten that today was a saturday at all. she was laughing along; sipping at some orange juice when it happened. 

it started as a tingle, maybe. one minute she was squinting over the small tv; orange juice on her tongue and a pleasant ache in her heart, when suddenly she jerked- her hand failing. the glass shattered in a loud CRACK, and all was silent. her own heart seemed to stop and when mildred came running over, she feared it might break completely or explode all gooey over her bones. the world spun, and she sobbed. “i’m sorry,” she gasped, her fingers shaking and thick tears clogging her throat, “i don’t know what happened, i-“

“it’s fine, my love. did you hurt yourself?” her eyes were kind, but gwendolyn burned from humiliation all the same. how foolish she had been, she thinks with flamed cheeks- to believe she had anything under control. mildred cleaned up the broken glass, seeing to understand she would not get an answer from gwen. her fingers turned robotic once more; almost electrical as they darted. gwendolyn cried, and mildred cleaned. when she was sure no glass was left over, she tossed the glittering shards in the trash bin; looking over to the blonde with a furrow in her brow. chocolate eyes searched for any sign of bleeding- and they shone with relief at the sight of none. still she kissed the pads of gwendolyn’s fingers; something that made the older woman’s heart do something nasty and painful. 

(the show blasted on around them, and gwendolyn? gwendolyn let herself cry, and mildred kissed upon her hands.)

now, she does not forget about the shots. she keeps herself in the present, soaking up any moment with mildred like she is a sponge; stuffing her head full of the things. she will still watch her programs and thunder her music; but she doesn’t allow herself to sink into them. she drank her orange juice, and ate her homemade blueberry muffin- every single bite. 

one would not assume mildred ratched to be one for baking, especially not blueberry muffins and buttermilk pancakes. gwendolyn had believed that as well, the thought only solidified when mildred served her up cookies so burnt they cracked when she picked them up. but then the cancer came and suddenly gwendolyn didn’t have the strength to eat anything. 

so mildred learned to cook. she bought cooking books, tried out recipes, and learned. it was tortuous, but she learned, and did it well. soon she was baking almost daily; because that was all gwendolyn could stomach without throwing up. mildred didn’t care, though. she would jump in fucking lava for gwendolyn, she would. the blonde would tease her- dry lips stretching into a smile as she called her a ‘perfect little housewife.’ mildred had scowled, and that had been the end of that. (gwendolyn pretends not to see her smiling after, fingers tracing along her dress almost lazily.)

gwendolyn blinks and is back in her bedroom. she wants to turn over to mildred and kiss her, hug her until they ache and never let her go. she wants, but it doesn’t matter. it’s saturday, and they have a schedule. soon, there will be pancakes, sausage and orange juice. she’ll roll up her sleeve; wispy and thin hair failing limp in her face, and try not to wince as she gets pumped full of shit meant to help her. 

every saturday, the needle enters her skin. and every saturday, she wonders. her mind is cruel- luring her into pictures of the two of them, skin flushed from the hot mexican sun. she’ll think of things impossible; mildred with a ring on her finger and gwendolyn’s maiden name. she will allow herself this weakness, because fuck- what else can she do? mildred’s face goes cold, like she can almost taste gwendolyn’s thoughts- and then she weeds. 

sunday’s are quiet, but nowhere near saturday’s. monday’s are fine, for on monday, mildred starts smiling again. the smiles are small and secret- like gwendolyn might break if she sees them. the rest of the week will stretch on like spider webs, but they will be happy and free of needles. by tuesday, mildred will laugh again- and gwendolyn will bask in it. 

but the good times are cruel. they are fleeting, and secretly, gwendolyn knows they are nothing more than a pile of stinking, nasty bullshit. the shots and medicine are weak, and they wear off, and mildred gets cold again. so, as dawn creeps upon the world and mildred stirs, gwendolyn moves- turning over to mildred’s side of the bed. she wraps her arms around her waist, placing her nose in the crook of her neck and just fucking breathes. 

mildred smells of something strong, always does this early in the morning. gwendolyn has no idea what it could be; they bathe together and none of her soaps or lotions smell like she does in the morning. she can feel herself getting drunk off it, so similar to how it feels to just sink her fingers in her wetness and lick at her for hours. gwendolyn sighs, clutching mildred that much closer. 

(it feels like a promise when mildred groans, turning in gwendolyn’s arms to face her with a sleepy smile.) 

-

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos are always appreciated x


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